


the dean winchester arm guide

by theplaidchesters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: DeanCas - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 21:52:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theplaidchesters/pseuds/theplaidchesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An exercise on the anatomy of the arm, or the one in which Dean Winchester realizes how gone he is on Castiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the dean winchester arm guide

**Author's Note:**

> It all started with a picture that showed the four "functions" of an arm. It was rather sweet, and it gave me enough feels to write this thing. Again, as stated on my previous work, English is not my first language; sorry in advance for grammar/vocabulary mistakes. 
> 
> My friend Itza made me the enormous favor to beta :)
> 
> Enjoy, I guess.
> 
> The four songs in this fanfic are:  
> 1: Red, by Taylor Swift.  
> 2: Transatlanticism, by Death Cab For Cutie.  
> 3: Clouds, by Imagine Dragons.  
> 4: Dance Me To The End Of Love, by The Civil Wars (orig. by Leonard Cohen).

 

 1.- Shoulder: to support.

_Touching him was like realizing all you ever wanted  
was right there in front of you._

 

There are times in the Winchester brothers’ lives in which Dean is too tired to drive and lets Sam take the wheel. It usually happens when he skips his regular four-hour-a-day nap and mixes whiskey and black coffee to keep him awake long enough to finish a job. Sam purses his mouth and Cas shoots him a look but Dean will answer with an _honestly, it’s okay, I can sleep when we get back_ and that would be the end of the discussion. They would go through the job without any incident, but at the end of it, Dean’s _fried_.

He can barely stand on his feet. And he has the nerve to ask for the keys.

“I really hope you’re kidding,” Sam snaps, wiping off the bloodstains from one of the demons. “Have you looked yourself in the mirror? You’re exhausted.”

“I’m not that exhausted,” Dean says, trying to sound convincing but failing miserably. His legs are wobbly and he’d have hit the ground if Sam hadn’t caught him on time. He gets a pointy look from his little brother, eyebrow arched and all. “Well, maybe I’m a little bit tired. But I can drive.”

Then, Cas intervenes and somehow convinces Dean to climb up the backseat – and Sam doesn’t know how he does it, how does he manage to make Dean Winchester sit on the backseat of _his_ car, his _baby_ , instead of going gunshot, but he doesn’t ask because he doesn’t want to know – so Sam starts up the engine and makes his way back to the motel.

Castiel stays up for a few minutes, chatting with Sam about his new discoveries about humanity (Dean’s already out), which is cool because Sam knows how hard it has been for Cas to cope with this whole _being human_ thing. He’s been great, though, and Sam admires that. (Dean doesn’t express his sympathy very often but sometimes he’d say two or three kind words to him). They talk about yoga classes for a while since they’re both fans, but Castiel is really tired – he spent the entire hunt watching Dean’s back, following Dean’s steps, saving Dean’s ass – and soon enough there are new snores coming from the backseat. It’s been a long time since Sam has been behind the wheel instead of going gunshot, so he installs the iPod thing, as Dean calls it, and puts on some Taylor Swift’s ballads.

Later he’d look at them through the rear mirror and smile.

 

Dean’s eyes snap open to the sound of his brother singing very clearly _loving him was red, oh, red, burning red_ , but that doesn’t shock him as much as the position he’s currently at. He’s got Cas all pressed up against the door, Cas’ head resting on the window, snoring, (barely, but it’s there, and Dean thinks how scary it is to find that endearing); their sides are pressed together, arm to arm, knee to knee, and Dean’s head… well, Dean’s head is resting on top of Cas’ shoulder, face hidden in the crook of his neck, breathing in his skin, lips grazing it with a light-feather touch.

Like a fucking chick flick.

Thank God his hands are resting on his own lap, otherwise it’d be weird.

_It is weird now, Winchester,_ says a voice in the back of his head, so he recoils to the other side of the car with a unsubtle movement that obviously wakes Cas up and gets Sam’s attention. His brother fucking smirks.

“Morning, sunshines,” he greets, and looks at them mischievously through the rear mirror. “Slept well?”

Dean clears his throat. “Would’ve slept better if you knew how to sing,” he says, and notices that Sam installed the _damn thing_. “Sam, take that off, I swear to God.”

 “That goes against the rules, jerk. Why don’t you go to your previous cuddly-cuddly position with Cas and sleep off the rest of the way. You two seemed comfortable.”

“Bitch,” Dean says, because he can’t come up with anything more coherent to say. He glances at Cas, who’s looking at Sam, head tilted. “You okay?”

He barely pays attention to him, and just nods vaguely before asking. “What happened? What did I miss?”

Dean sends Sam a _don't-you-dare_ look, so he shrugs. “Err, nothing important, Cas. You two can go back to sleep. We’re still an hour away from the motel.”

Not looking very convinced, Cas nods and returns to his previous position, but something catches his eye – something on his shoulder – and frowns. “Why is my shoulder wet?” he asks, and Sam lets go a strangled laugh but hides it rather cleverly underneath a cough.

_Oh, just great_ , Dean thinks. He meets Cas’ gaze and just knows he can’t get away from this one, not when Cas furrows his brow and practically pouts at him. He can hear Sam singing _and that's why he's spinnin' 'round in my head, comes back to me, burning red, yeah, yeah_ and determinately not looking at them, eyes focused on the road. Well, bless him.

Dean clears his throat and looks at the wet patch on Cas’ tee. “Sorry about that.”

Cas’ furrow deepens and his head tilts even more. “About what?”

“The drool on your shirt.”

“Drool? How did you—?“ but then Cas sees the red mark on Dean’s cheek and the unmistakable fabric patterns on his skin. His eyes widen. “Oh.”

Dean swallows. “Yeah.”

There’s a glint in Cas’ eyes that Dean can’t quite decipher; Cas averts them quickly but Dean notices how they spark and how his skin reddens, as if he were ashamed, but the lopsided smile he’s wearing tells him otherwise. He honestly doesn’t know what to think about that.

“No need to apologize,” Cas says, looking outside the window.

“Okay. Sorry, anyway.”

Mirroring Cas, he engulfs himself in his jacket and looks away. Sam is still singing loudly (and badly), the sky is clearing and Dean can already see the sun rising just ahead of them. He can feel the slight tingle on his lips, just were the stubble of Cas caressed them, and it stings a little but also feels so good. He wants to go back to Cas and assume his previous position, nuzzle at the skin and take a deep, deep breath.

Dean doesn’t go back to sleep, and neither does Cas.

 

* * *

 

 2.- Bicep: to hold.

_I need you so much closer._

 

His orders were clear( _Get him out of here right now!_ ), and Sam had never seen Castiel so angry, boiling rage visible across his face, so he obeyed without thinking and dragged Dean out of the warehouse. The last thing he saw was Castiel taking out two guns, loading them rather quickly – he’s a hell of a gunner, that’s for sure – and turning around to face three, four, five angels. One of them got Dean, slicing his side open; Castiel shouted Sam, made him abort the mission, ordered to take Dean to a hospital, commanded him to _leave me the fuck alone with these fuckers_ and pleaded him to _watch after Dean, please take him away, please Sam_ , so Sam did. He left Castiel alone with a herd of angry angels, with two guns and an angel blade. But Castiel was furious, almost like a mad man, and while Sam dragged Dean out of danger and into the car, he knew Castiel would be okay. Right now, though, Sam’s trying really hard to keep his brother alive—the cut is long and deep, and the blood keeps pouring from Dean’s side; he’s semi conscious, muttering things under his breath that sound suspiciously like Castiel’s short name; Sam hears his own name too, and that makes him go even faster, not really caring about the road police.

 

The first thing Dean does when he wakes up besides greeting Sam with a lopsided smile, is asking _where’s Cas?_ with a hopeful glint that’s soon replaced by an are-you-shitting-me face. Sam does his best explaining the whole situation, telling him that Castiel yelled at him ( _He never yells at me, Dean, what was I supposed to do_ ), ordering him to retreat and leave him.

“I had to,” he says. “You were dying. Cas knew you were dying, and so did I.”

“And you left him to deal with a fucking angel army?” Dean asks, voice trembling with rage. “Alone?”

“He pushed me away!”

“But he—“

“He wanted you safe! He wanted you to live! And, to be honest, I wanted you to live, too. You’re my brother, Dean, you would’ve done the same for me.”

Dean looks away. “If it’s any consolation,” continues Sam, “he was pissed. Like, really pissed.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks, and there’s a hint of pride in his voice.

“Yeah. I heard a lot of gunshots while I was dragging your ass out of that place. Lots of screaming, too.”

“What a badass.”

 

Dean’s moping. It’s been almost two weeks and there are no signs of Castiel—he hasn’t called or texted, and as days pass, Dean gets gloomier and gloomier. He’s still recovering from his wounds, but Sam guesses they’re not the real cause of his pain. Against medical instructions, Dean starts mixing booze with his painkillers, and passes out on the couch after throwing up on the living room’s trashcan. Sam hears Dean pray ( _come back, please, come back, I need you here_ ) every night, and tries to ignore the muffled sounds that come from his bedroom from time to time.

One day, just as Sam is helping Dean to get on his feet, there’s a knock on the door. Dean freezes, fixates his eyes so hard on the wooden door as if he wanted to see right through it. “Do you think—? Cas?” he asks, and it’s such a pitiful sound Sam almost winces.

“We’ll see. Stay here.”

Sam gets the door and Dean only sees that wild dark hair before he’s on his feet, wobbling a little when he tries to take a step towards Cas, who’s currently hugging Sam and not him. Dean wants Cas to hug him but he also wants to kick his ass for being so goddamn stupid. Stupid Cas who thought it’d be okay to face all alone a bunch of douchebags just to keep him safe. God, he wants to yell at Cas for so many things but mainly because it was very stupid of him to think Dean would’ve been grateful to live in exchange of Cas’ life.

He’s right there, right in front of him.

The beautiful, badass, _stupid_ motherfucker.

Cas nods at him. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean breathes a couple of times before saying, “Come here, you son of a bitch,” and when Cas violates his personal space—which is normal by now, really—Dean claws at his biceps, digging his fingertips with enough strength to leave marks. _Please, please, let there be marks, please, let me mark you_. He adds a little bit of nail, enough to make Cas hiss. “Never do that again! What the hell were you thinking!”

“Dean—“

“I’ve been worried sick and you don’t have the decency to call?”

Cas tries to talk again but Dean tightens his grip. “Shut up and let me do the talk!” he snaps, but when Cas gulps and nods, shifting nervously and ashamed on his feet and _not_ looking at him, Dean’s anger washes and it’s replaced by concern, mostly because there are bruises on Cas’ face. Dean tries to breathe but it comes out unevenly, and his voice cracks when he speaks. He gestures at Cas’ wounds. “Did they—? Was it them?” Cas nods. “Did you kill ‘em?” Dean asks, and when Cas nods again, he swallows his own words ( _That’s my boy, I’m so fucking proud of you_ ) and merely says: “Awesome.”

“I told you he’d be okay,” Sam says.

“Yeah, well, I still don’t think it was cool to leave him alone,” Dean snaps, trying to ignore Cas’ fiery stare.

“I would have killed him had he stayed,” Cas retorts, and mirrors Dean, placing his hands on Dean’s biceps. Dean was unaware his own hands were still there. “I would have chopped his head off, because you were bleeding out on the floor and you were going to _die_. Forgive me for not wanting you to expire in the middle of an abandoned warehouse. Forgive me for not wanting you to die at all.”

Now it’s Dean’s turn to look down. “I do not regret my decision,” Cas says, voice soft and tender, all signs of the previous anger and discontent already gone. “I would do it again, Dean Winchester, over and over, no matter how many times it takes.”

“Don’t say that,” Dean pleads, and wow, it’s pitiful and sad how weak his voice sounds. “Please, Cas, don’t—“

Cas manages to shut him up engulfing his trembling body with a comforting embrace; the wound doesn’t complain, it just takes Cas as if he were the ultimate cure, the final remedy. Somehow, his presence nullifies the miserable nights, the cocktails of mixed pills and whiskey, the praying and the sobbing—the latter won’t be mentioned in Cas’ presence, otherwise, Dean will have Sam killed—. Dean hides his face on the crook of Cas’ neck and inhales very deeply. Maybe it was the last effects of the medicine he took early that day, but he says, “I’m glad you’re safe… and here.” _With me_.

They hear Sam make a barfing sound. “Get a room.”

 

* * *

 

3.- Forearm: to reach.

_I can take you home, or you can be a home._

 

Dean had that dream again, the dream in which he let Castiel slip away. They were back in Purgatory, and Dean put a foot inside of the vortex, feeling his body being pulled in by an extreme force, but he resisted it and turned around, faced Castiel and reached out for him. He stretched out his arm as far as he could, he watched him trip and fall and scream his name over and over again. Once again, he saw the hope abandoning his eyes—was it even there on the beginning? Dean didn’t know—, he saw Castiel taking a step backwards and ordering him to go, but Dean didn’t want to, so he reached forward even more, felt the muscles of his forearm enlarging to grab him by the wrist and pull him home, but the more he tried, the more his muscle expanded, the more the distance grew between the two of them. Dean felt the force of the vortex finally defeating him; it took him in, threw him into an unknown forest, and he was left with his arm stretched out, reaching out for Cas, who wasn’t there. Then there was Castiel exploding into a million of pieces, Castiel dropping dead after expelling the souls of Purgatory, Castiel walking into that river and breaking apart, Leviathans coming out of his body… the trench coat, the blood, the lies…

He woke up to the sound of his own screaming, and noticed his right arm was just like on the dream, reaching out for something, for someone, for Cas, the same Cas that was looking at him worryingly, standing on the doorframe. The mere sight of him was enough to calm down his brain, and when Cas walked towards the bed, reached out and took his hand, Dean took a shaky breath. “I meant it, Cas, never do that again.”

“Why, is Dean Winchester worried about me?” Cas teased, taking a seat on the bed.

“You’re a fool.”

“I do foolish things when it comes to you, yes.”

“Is staying the night here foolish enough for you? To sleep, I mean. Just to sleep.”

Cas’ eyes glowed. “It’s sufficient.”

 

* * *

 

 

4.- Hands/fingertips: to caress.

_Touch me with your naked hand  
or touch me with your glove._

 

They’re eating breakfast, the four of them: a feast of scrambled egg with bacon and toast, courtesy of Cas and his recently acquired interest on cooking, and although the food is delicious and greasy—just the way Dean likes it—he cannot seem able to swallow it. Not even the bacon, which is crunchy and delicious in a not healthy way, Dean’s favorite way. He just looks at his plate, then at Cas, then at Sam to check if he saw him or something, the back at his plate.

Kevin notices. “What’s the matter, _Dean_?”

“Nothing,” he snaps. “Why.”

“You seemed… off. Besides, you haven’t touched your food.”

“Did I put too much salt in it?” Cas asks, looking at Dean apologetically.

“No, it’s not—Cas, can we talk?”

He nods and places his fork on the table in that gracious and elegant way in which he does most of his movements. Even when he’s killing, shooting, handling a blade or breaking necks, Castiel is very well mannered, slow but efficient, too meticulous and perfectionist. He’s like a polite killing machine. When they reach the kitchen, Dean turns and he’s not surprised to find Cas right in front of him, eyes already locked with his.

“What do you need?”

“I—could you… meet me? Tonight?”

Cas tilts his head. “Do you want me—?”

“To stay. I want you to stay,” he blurts out. “With me. I need to say a few things.”

“Okay.”

 

Castiel knocks on his door when Sam withdraws to his own room; Dean’s already expecting him. “Close the door,” he says, “and lock it.” Cas gives him a puzzled look but obeys, and Dean seizes the chance, grabs the moment, takes Cas by the head and crashes their mouths together. The sound he makes, like a stunned puppy or some other adorable animal, makes Dean’s chest explode with happiness. It doesn’t last long, unfortunately, but Dean doesn’t want to scare him out, and hell, he’s new at this. He’s never kissed a dude before, and when he made the decision to kiss Cas, he also made the decision to not just kissing him, but seeing him naked as well. God, he wants to see him naked so bad.

“I’m a crappy talker,” Dean says. He feels Cas’ lips grazing his, warm minty breath puffing out of his mouth. “You know that.” Castiel nods fervently, but doesn’t reply. “Do you—? Could we—? _Bed?_ ”

“God, yes.”

 

Dean didn’t know his hands and fingers had other uses besides loading guns and stabbing some sons of bitches. Sure, he had women and he had touched them in the right places and made them come, but when the never-ending canvases that are Cas’ chest and back appear right in front of Dean’s eyes, he finally understands the purpose of his own fingertips: they were created to draw every contour of that body, to feel the ribs and muscles underneath Cas’ sides, to caress the badass tattoo on Cas’ stomach, to make Cas tremble and squirm underneath him. He strokes his arms while he kisses that pool in the middle of his collarbones, he bites his earlobe and pinches his pink, perky nipple until Cas hisses and arches his back, hard as a rock. Dean holds Cas’ head with both hands, looks at him right in the eye before diving into a heated, sloppy kiss. Kisses aren’t enough, Dean discovers, and he wants to rip those jeans open and pull them down and—

“Do it,” Cas pleads. “Please, just do it.”

“Shit, did I say that out loud?”

“Dean Winchester, I swear if you don’t get moving I’m gonna—“

“ _What_?” Dean growls, and rocks his cocks together, making Cas mewl. “What are you gonna do?”

Cas shakes his head, says _nothing, nothing,_ and clings on Dean’s back, lunching forward to devour his mouth. Dean complies, and his fingertips claw at the glowing skin, the thrusting never hesitating, but going erratic, frantic. It’s delicious. “You know,” Dean whispers, tracing his index finger across Cas’ lip. “I think I can still smell some April on you.”

“Well, you should probably fix that.”

Dean laughs. “I should,” he says, and goes south, wiping that smug smile off Cas’ face. 


End file.
